


Convicted Criminals of Thought

by cedarbranch



Series: Wandering Eyes [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beholding Avatar Gerard Keay, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Mind Control, Dom Gerard Keay, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Misuse of Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Smut, Sub Michael Shelley, Trans Gerard Keay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: Michael is usually good about keeping his daydreams under control. He's a professional, after all. He can't afford to be fantasizing at work. Even if the fantasiesareabout his unbearably hot coworker.His unbearably hot coworker who might possibly, maybe, potentially, be able to read his thoughts.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Series: Wandering Eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986337
Comments: 59
Kudos: 388





	Convicted Criminals of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> *cries* this was supposed to be SHORT........
> 
> anyway title is from sexxx dreams by lady gaga don't look at me

Michael hurries down the hallway, clutching a giant stack of manila folders to his chest. The things are ancient, and stuffed so full that every step threatens to send papers flying. He fumbles to keep them in order. A file slips out, and as he grabs for it, it destabilizes the rest of the papers. They go crashing to the floor, scattering in all directions. 

Michael deflates. Now Gertrude’s sure to scold him for the inevitable disorganization, _and_ for taking so long. He crouches down and starts to gather them up.

As he’s sweeping them into a pile, a subtle, uneasy feeling comes over him. He can’t place it, but something feels off. Something is wrong. He sits up, looking all around for anything out of place, and that’s when it hits him—the air smells like smoke. 

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and the archives are the one place where fire is _absolutely not allowed._

Panic sets in with a jolt. Michael jumps to his feet, the files all but forgotten. His first instinct is to retrace his steps—this can’t be his fault, it can’t be, but what if it _is_ —so he runs back down the hallway he came from. The smell gets stronger as he goes. He follows it past doors and branching pathways into other wings of the Institute, until he finally runs past the door to the courtyard. The air outside is thick and grey. 

Michael bursts through the door. Someone is coughing. Michael waves his arm through the air, trying to clear away some of the smoke; it recedes just enough for him to make out a man, knelt down and covered from head to toe with soot. He coughs into his arm, wheezing for breath. Michael doesn’t even notice the blade in his hands until he’s stabbed it hard into the book on the ground in front of him. 

The book emits a hissing shriek, and a final jet of roiling black smoke, then the pages shrivel into themselves and dissolve into ash. The man falls back, his knife clattering to the ground. The smoke thins and dissipates, and Michael is left alone in the courtyard with a stranger, a knife, and a pile of ash that was formerly a book. 

All he can do is stare. 

The man wipes a bit of soot from his eyes. It doesn’t do much to help, just smears it in a black streak across his face. It should look ridiculous, but with his sharp features and dark eyes, the grimy look is actually kind of… well, Michael knows an attractive man when he sees one, even if he does look like he’s just rolled out of a coal mine. 

“You got something to say?” the man says testily. 

Michael’s face flushes with heat. “Sorry,” he says. Shit, he hadn’t meant to be rude. Quite honestly, he has a _lot_ of things to say, namely, _what just happened,_ _what the hell was that book and why did you stab it,_ and _are you wearing eyeliner, or is that just soot?_

He doubts that any of these questions are appropriate.

“There’s no fire allowed near the archives,” is what he settles on. 

The stranger rolls his eyes. “One of those, are you?” he says. It’s not really a question. He dusts himself off and gets to his feet, swiping the knife from the ground. Michael is too perplexed to even be offended by his tone. 

“What do you mean, one of those?” he asks. 

“Archival assistants,” the man says dismissively. He slips the knife into the pocket of his black duster. “If Gertrude asks, this never happened. And for the record, I didn’t burn it—that wouldn’t have gone well. It just spat smoke at me.”

“O-oh,” says Michael. “You know Gertude?”

“Yeah. I work with her sometimes.” 

That only adds more questions to the list, but then again, working at the Magnus Institute has always resulted in a certain degree of supernatural nonsense that Michael’s never really understood. This must just be one of those things. 

“Do you… want some help cleaning up?” Michael asks tentatively. 

The man gives him a funny look. “No, I think I’ll be okay,” he says. “What did you say your name was?”

“Michael,” Michael blurts out. “My-my name’s Michael Shelley.”

“Pleasure. I’m Gerard. A word to the wise, Michael…” Gerard brushes past him and tugs open the door, glancing back over his shoulder as he goes. “Don’t do everything Gertrude tells you. Sometimes, a little fire is the better option.” 

The door swings shut, and he’s gone. 

Michael stares after him. The air in the courtyard is fresh and clear, with no indication that anything unusual has happened there in the past ten minutes, or ever. Except for the pile of ash, that is. Michael gives it a sidelong glance. It doesn’t grow teeth and lash out at him, but looking at it makes him shiver all the same, and he darts back inside. 

He goes back to retrieve the files he’d dropped and makes straight for Gertrude’s office. The door is already ajar, but he keeps a tight grip on the folders with one hand and knocks with the other. “Mrs. Robinson?” he asks.

“Come in,” she says from behind the door, and he shoulders his way inside. Gertrude is reading something on her desktop computer. “Just leave them on the desk, please, Michael,” she says, not looking up. Michael dumps them onto her desk, doing his best to keep them from collapsing again. He stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, and she finally looks up at him. “Yes?” 

“I-I just have a question,” Michael says, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “I, erm. I ran across someone just now, and something, something… strange happened? But he said he knew you, and I was just wondering what that might have been—”

Gertrude’s eyes narrow. “What did he look like?” she asks.

“Er,” says Michael. _Dirty_ is not a helpful adjective in this case. Neither is _handsome._ “Black hair?” he tries. “Dyed, I think? And a black jacket, too—oh, and he said his name was Gerard?”

Gertrude lets out a sigh that’s more of a clipped exhale. “I figured as much,” she says. “What exactly happened?”

Michael pauses. Gerard _had_ asked him not to say anything, and he doesn’t want to be a snitch, but then again, the whole thing had been so strange… If it was something really dangerous, Gertrude should know. Besides, he doesn’t even know if Gerard is trustworthy. 

“There was this book,” he says slowly. “I-I smelled smoke, and I went outside, and he was there in the courtyard—”

“I’ve told him not to burn those on Institute property,” Gertrude mutters to herself.

“No, no!” Michael says quickly. “He, er, he specifically said to tell you that he _wasn’t_ burning it, i-it just kind of… reacted? There was just smoke, no fire. I saw it. He—he stabbed the book, and it shot out smoke, and then it kind of, er, fell apart? And that was it. No flames.”

Gertrude examines him closely. Michael shrinks back automatically; her gaze is a spotlight, and a wicked hot one, at that. He can feel his cheeks going pink. He has nothing to hide, but it still feels like she can see straight through him, and whatever it is she sees, she doesn’t approve.

“What else did he say to you?” she asks. 

“Nothing, really. H-he didn’t really seem the type for conversation.” Michael laughs nervously. “He just destroyed the book and left.”

“Hm.” Gertrude returns her attention to her laptop. “Well, see to it that you don’t end up in conversation with him in the future. Gerard is a bit of a rogue agent. He’s not good company for you to be keeping.”

“R-right.” That’s not encouraging at all. Michael knows he’s being dismissed, but for his own peace of mind, he has to press just a little more. “I-is he a bad person? That book, I don’t know what it was, but it seemed dangerous, and he did destroy it, so—”

“There’s no need to be afraid of him,” Gertrude cuts him off. “He is an ally of the Institute, and a good researcher. I work with him fairly often. But he does have some rather… unorthodox ideas. Methods that I would not use. I wouldn’t want him influencing you.”

Michael lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For a moment, he’d been worried that he’d come across someone really dangerous. But if this Gerard has Gertrude’s respect, and she would even praise his research skills, then he can’t be all that bad. 

Michael slips out of Gertrude’s office. He has a million questions, but he knows Gertrude well enough to be aware that pressing her for information won’t yield much more than an unimpressed look, especially if she’s busy with other things. She doesn’t like to be interrupted. Michael will find some other opportunity to ask. 

And in the meantime, he’ll just have to stew in his own curiosity.

***

Michael’s first instinct when he hears footsteps in the archives is to hide. There’s no good reason for it. He’s easily startled, and when people unexpectedly approach, there’s always the urge to make himself smaller, just in case he’s doing something wrong. Just in case they’d be inconvenienced if they knew he was there. 

So when the door to the archives creaks open, and a particularly heavy set of footsteps approach, Michael almost drops the files he’s reorganizing. He scoots closer to the shelf and keeps his head down, hoping to escape notice. The footsteps go right past him. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Then they come back. 

“What are you doing?” asks a voice. 

Michael looks up. Standing at the end of the aisle is a man in a leather jacket—the same one from a few weeks ago, with the weird book. Gertrude’s associate. Gerard. 

“Oh, er, n-nothing much,” Michael stammers. “Just doing some organizing, that’s all—”

“Were you hiding?” Gerard asks, amused. 

“No,” Michael says. “No, I was just, um, trying to figure out where to put this?” He waves the document in his hands, not bothering to check what it is. “But I-I’ve figured it out now, so, it’s all right.” He laughs nervously. Gerard just raises his eyebrows. Michael clears his throat. “Did you need something?” he asks. 

“Oh, no. I was just wondering why you were avoiding me.” Gerard leans against the shelf, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thought it might’ve been because you tattled to Gertrude about that book and didn’t want me finding out.” 

Michael swallows. “Right,” he says. “Right, well, you see, I know you said not to tell her, but I didn’t actually know what that thing _was_ , a-and I thought that she really ought to know if it was something that could—”

“I know, I know. I get it. You were just being a good little archival assistant, obeying her every word.” 

Michael frowns. He looks down to check the file in his hands, and carefully tuck it into the correct file on the shelf. “You don’t have to be rude about it,” he says. “I-I’m not just… some servant carrying out her whims. I have a job. I was trying to do that job.”

“Right, I’m sorry.” Gerard takes a little notebook from his pocket and flips it open. “Anyway, I was hoping I’d run into you. There should be a statement somewhere in the archives about a book from the library of Jurgen Leitner— _The Travels of Marco Polo_? If you could find that for me, that’d be great.”

Michael can’t lie, it does give him a little thrill of satisfaction to hear that Gerard was hoping to find him, that he’d put Michael on the job over anyone else. Maybe that’s enough for Michael to forgive his rudeness. “I’ll check the Leitner files,” he says. “Hold on just a moment.” He walks over to Gerard, intending to pass right by him, but Gerard pokes him in the arm. Michael stops. “What?”

“You’re only proving my point, you know,” Gerard says, grinning. 

Michael blinks. “I… sorry?”

“You’re very good at doing what you’re told.”

Heat spreads slowly across Michael’s face. He brushes his hair back, if only for the excuse to look away. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you,” he mutters. “Okay. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, I really shouldn’t. Gertrude said…”

Shit.

Gerard is wearing the biggest shit-eating grin Michael has ever seen. “She said not to, didn’t she?” he asks. “Is that why you’re scared of me?”

“I’m not scared of you!” Michael says defensively. 

“Good. That’s the real reason I was hoping I’d see you, actually.” Gerard’s smile softens into something a little less smug and more genuine. “I know we got off on kind of a weird foot last time, but if you’re Gertrude’s assistant, I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future, so I thought we should have a proper introduction.” He sticks out his hand. “Gerard Keay. Pleased to meet you.”

Michael cautiously takes his hand and gives it a shake. Gerard’s grip is firm. For some reason, it drains away some of the anxiety in Michael’s chest, and he finds that he doesn’t quite want to let go. He has to, though. He lets his hand drop, and tries not to feel the echo of the touch, the way it lingers down to the bone. 

“You already know my name,” he says. 

“That I do. Michael Shelley, was it?” Gerard asks. Michael nods. “Perfect. I hope Gertrude didn’t say anything terrible about me. We don’t always see eye to eye, but I promise, I’m not as bad as she makes me out to be.” He lowers his voice. “Truth be told, I think she’s just jealous that I’m better at my job than she is.”

That surprises a giggle out of Michael. Gerard gives him a crooked grin in return. “She didn’t say anything too bad,” says Michael. “Just that you were, erm, a researcher?” 

Gerard nods. “That’s one word for it.”

Michael chews on his lip. He hasn’t been able to pester any details out of Gertrude, and curiosity still itches at the back of his mind. This might be the perfect opportunity.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is it exactly that you study?” he asks.

Gerard shrugs. “Leitners, mostly. If it’s a fucked up book, I’m interested. I also get involved with cult shit every once in a while.”

“Right.” Michael hesitates. “And these books, they… they are, you know… they are _supernatural_ , aren’t they?”

Gerard gives him a funny look. “Of course they’re supernatural,” he says. “You—you work at the Magnus Institute, don’t go telling me you’re a skeptic.”

“No, I’m not,” Michael says quickly. He’s always believed in the supernatural—there’s no other explanation for some of the things he’s seen. “I-it’s just that I don’t have much experience with stuff like that. I mean, I’ve heard about some of the things that go on in Artifact Storage, but I-I’m just an archival assistant, aren’t I?” He breathes a laugh. “Not a very exciting job.”

“I guess not,” says Gerard, still giving him that odd look. “You do know who Leitner is, though, don’t you?”

“I… I know that a lot of his books pop up in statements, and we keep some of them in the lower levels, yes,” Michael says, uncertain. 

There’s a long pause. “Yeah, that’s him,” Gerard finally says. “He’s created some really evil shit. Like, slaughtering innocent people, destroying whole towns, that kind of evil. So I burn any of his books I can get my hands on.”

“Except the last one,” says Michael.

Gerard smiles. “Except the last one,” he says. “Some of them don’t react well to burning. You have to find other ways. Speaking of which,” he waves the little notebook in his hand, “I was serious about _The Travels_ , I do need to find more about it. D’you want to help?”

Michael pauses. “You’re not just trying to trick me again, are you?” he asks suspiciously.

Gerard laughs. “No, I’m serious. This is me asking you, not telling you, see?”

“I guess that’s all right, then,” says Michael, mollified. “Follow me, I know where we might be able to find something useful.”

After that, Michael runs into Gerard fairly consistently. He doesn’t tell Gertrude about it, but Gerard is always polite enough, save for his teasing. He’s actually quite fun to be around, once Michael starts talking with him more often. Michael keeps an eye out for any statements mentioning Jurgen Leitner, or any evil books, even ones not directly attached to his name, and the way Gerard’s face lights up whenever he uncovers something new always makes it worthwhile. 

In other words, Michael is fucked. 

He doesn’t _mean_ to get a crush. He never does. He always falls too fast and too hard, and by the time he recognizes the butterflies that flutter in his chest whenever Gerard’s around, it’s too late. Gerard is too charming and far too good-looking for Michael to walk away. 

So Michael sticks close to him, doing his own work while Gerard reads through statements about flesh-eating books, and maybe, maybe neglecting a few of his official tasks in favor of helping out. It’s hard enough to get things done even when Gerard isn’t around. Michael will get to thinking about his hands, and the way they’re rough to the touch but gentle in motion, or the way he sometimes tugs at his lip piercing with his teeth when he’s concentrating, or the way his voice gets lower when he’s frustrated and he’ll get bossy without realizing it, and… 

Michael shakes himself out of _that_ train of thought, blushing hot all over. He can’t be fantasizing at work, especially not when Gerard is supposed to show up at any second. He busies himself with the list of files Gertrude’s asked him to retrieve, skimming over it to see which will be the easiest to find. 

Just as he’s doing so, a set of footsteps approaches. They clunk against the floor in the familiar rhythm of combat boots against linoleum, and Michael looks up, already smiling. “Morning,” Gerard says, taking a seat on Michael’s desk. “What’s the old witch given you today?”

“Gerard!” Michael hisses. He looks around furtively. Gertrude is nowhere to be seen, and neither is anyone else, thank goodness. “You can’t talk about her like that, she’s my boss!”

“Exactly,” Gerard says smugly. “Your boss, your problem.”

“You’re awful,” Michael mutters, looking back down at his list. “You’re going to get me fired one day.”

Gerard laughs. “Oh, I highly doubt that.”

“But you never know!” Michael protests.

“Trust me, I… oh, hey. Nice pin.” 

Michael looks down. He’s wearing his favorite sweater today, the chunky-knit maroon one—he’d almost completely forgotten about the tiny rainbow flag pin he’d attached to his collar. His heart skips a beat. “Thanks,” he manages to say. 

“Course. I’ve got one like that, too. Plus one shaped like a fist with the trans flag on it, but I’m not here to brag about my fantastic taste in pins,” Gerard says with a smirk. 

Before Michael knows it, he’s grinning from ear to ear. Shit, he hadn’t even been daring to hope that Gerard might be into guys, but that’s a confirmation if he’s ever heard one.

A distant part of him knows that, objectively, this is bad. This is _so_ bad. His unattainable crush has suddenly flipped into attainable territory, unless Gerard is taken, but Michael’s not going to think about that. He’s so giddy, his head is spinning. 

“You could brag, if you wanted,” he says. “I-I wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t. Here, let me see that.” Gerard reaches over Michael and plucks the list from his hands. For a moment, he’s directly in Michael’s personal space, and Michael short-circuits a little. He barely notices the paper’s absence. 

Gerard reads it over. “Huh,” he says. “I think I know what she’s onto with this. Here, I can help you find some of these, I’ve used them before.”

He slides off the desk and walks out the door. Michael’s brain takes a moment to catch up, then he’s scrambling to follow Gerard. 

And he doesn’t purposefully hang back a few feet so he can check out Gerard from behind. No, he does not do that. Not one bit.

***

Usually, Michael is good about keeping his daydreams under control.

 _Usually_ being the operative word. 

Because the thing is, sometimes Gerard wears short sleeves, and Michael very innocently suggests that they get down one of the heavier file boxes from up high, and as it turns out, Gerard is a lot stronger than his lanky frame would suggest. The thing is, sometimes he wears black lipstick, and all Michael can think about is kissing it off him. 

The thing is, sometimes he gives Michael these looks, long and searching, as if Michael is a puzzle he hasn’t figured out yet. It makes Michael feel like he’s pinned to the spot, squirming under a microscope. He blushes every time without fail, and a slow grin will spread across Gerard’s face, like there’s a joke Michael isn’t in on yet. 

No wonder Michael gets distracted. It’s just not _fair._

Michael takes a deep breath, trying to refocus on his work. Gerard has gone over to the other side of the archives in search of some file or another, leaving Michael alone with his thoughts. Most of which are revolving around Gerard’s hands, and how they might feel running down Michael’s sides, or grabbing his hips, or maybe his hair. Michael shivers. Gerard would probably like that. He could twist his fingers into Michael’s hair and pull, dragging Michael wherever he wanted, whether it was into a kiss or down on his knees to— 

Michael lets his head fall against the desk with a _thunk_. He _cannot_ keep doing this. It’s creepy. Gerard is his coworker, for Christ’s sake. 

But he’ll never know.

And having his face against the desk is really giving Michael thoughts about being bent over it. 

He can just picture it. Gerard pushing him back until he hits the desk, kissing him hard, hands roving up and under his shirt. Michael sitting and wrapping his legs around Gerard’s waist to pull him closer, Gerard kissing him deeper until Michael is panting into his mouth. Gerard turning him—no, telling him to turn over, and Michael obeying without question, just to shudder against Gerard’s touch when he digs his fingers into Michael’s hips. 

“You,” Gerard observes, “are getting very distracted.” 

Michael yelps and sits bolt upright, managing to knock the papers off his desk in the process. “I’m not!” he says. His face is on fire. _Fuck_ , of all the times for Gerard to come back. 

Gerard smiles, oblivious to Michael’s racing pulse. “No time for naps, Michael, you’re on the clock.” He walks over and tosses a new folder onto Michael’s desk. “Give that one a try, it might be helpful.”

Michael’s mouth has gone dry. “Right,” he says. “Y-yes, I’ll get right on it.” 

Gerard shoots him an amused look and drags a chair over, kicking his feet up onto Michael’s desk. “Sure,” he says. “Don’t drift off this time.”

Michael buries his face in his hands, and Gerard just laughs.

***

“Oh, no,” Michael mumbles to himself. 

“What?” Gerard asks, glancing up from his notebook. He’s leaning against the archive shelf, waiting for Michael to find what he needs so they can go back upstairs. 

The only problem is, the file Michael needs is not there.

This is not an unusual occurrence. It’s no secret that the archives are horribly disorganized, and Michael can never be sure if it’ll take him two seconds or two hours to find things. Unfortunately, the file’s absence means that in this case it’ll probably be closer to two hours. He doesn’t even know what it’s about; Gertrude had just given him the statement number, as if that’s enough to go off of. 

Michael sighs. “This is going to take a while,” he says. “You can go if you want to.”

Gerard closes his book. “What’s wrong?”

Michael waves his hand. “Just things out of place as usual,” he says. “It’s not a big deal, I’ll find it eventually. You should…” He pauses. From far off, a pair of footsteps can be heard. They click neatly against the tile, getting louder as they draw nearer. Michael instinctively shoves the box he’d been looking through back onto the shelf. 

The footsteps reach the end of the aisle and stop. “There you are, Michael,” says Gertrude. “Are you busy?”

“I, er… You did tell me to get that statement?” Michael says, trying for a smile. He crosses his fingers behind his back, hoping she won’t ask about it. 

“Ah. That’s all right, I’ll put someone else on it. I want to ask you about something else.” Gertrude walks over, passing him a business card. “We’ve just had a statement in about a butcher shop not too far from here; I think it would be best to follow up right away. Can you go out and ask the owner some questions for me?”

“Oh! S-sure, yes,” Michael says, taking the card. At least this way he won’t be blamed for the missing file. 

“Wonderful. Here’s a copy of the statement,” she says, handing him a thin packet. “Unless there’s anything else you need to take care of, you can head out right away.”

“Wait,” says Gerard. Gertrude looks at him for the first time, as if only just noticing he’s there. Her eyes narrow.

“Michael,” she says. “Did I not ask you to stay away from him?”

“Excuse me, I’m right here,” Gerard says with a scowl. “You can’t honestly be sending him to investigate a statement on his own?”

Thankfully, it seems to be enough to keep Gertrude’s attention on him. “Yes,” she says. It sounds like a warning. “He’s perfectly capable, Gerard.” 

“I’m going with him,” Gerard says flatly. 

“That really won’t be necessary.”

“Too bad. You’re not my boss.”

They glare at each other in a silent stand-off. Michael steps back automatically, clutching the business card with both hands. The idea of Gerard coming along with him makes his heart flutter—it would be nice to have some company—but if Gertrude’s against it, he won’t say anything. 

That plan is ruined when Gerard turns to him and asks, “What do you think, Michael? Do you want me to come?”

“I-I-I don’t know,” Michael stutters. “I-I mean, yes, that, that would be nice, but if Mrs. Robinson doesn’t think it’s a good idea then I’m sure I’ll—”

“See?” Gerard asks, turning back to Gertrude. “He’s on board. Two heads are better than one, wouldn’t you say? I’ll be an extra note-taker.” He smiles wryly, holding up his notebook. 

Gertrude’s lips press together in a thin line. “Fine,” she says. “But don’t create distractions.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Gerard. Gertrude turns to leave, her little heels click-clacking all the way out of the archives. 

Once she’s gone, Michael asks, “You don’t like her much, do you?” 

“I’m not her biggest fan, no.” Gerard stows his notebook in his jacket’s inner pocket. “Come on, let’s go. My car’s outside.” 

They go out to the car park, and Gerard tosses Michael his keys. “You drive, I’ll read the statement,” he says. “Best to be prepared.”

Michael giggles. “You worried about running into a ghost?”

“You never know,” Gerard says lightly. “Better safe than sorry.” He jumps into the passenger’s side and swings the door shut behind him. Michael takes the wheel. Gerard feeds him directions from his phone, and after about ten minutes of driving, they pass by a butcher shop with a pig painted in the front window. Michael finds a spot to park—a big spot with extra room to maneuver, because if he fucks up Gerard’s car he might actually die—and they get out. 

“So, what was the statement like?” Michael asks as they walk up to the door.

Gerard grimaces. “It’s a butcher shop,” he says. 

“So, it was about…” 

“Weird meat,” says Gerard, and pushes the front door open. 

Michael follows him in. The inside of the shop is mostly taken up by a deli-style counter that has cuts of meat laid out inside it. A similar counter sits next to it with some hot dishes inside. There’s no one behind either of them. Michael sticks close to Gerard as they venture further in, looking around from the peeling plaster walls to the dark and stained linoleum floor. He wrinkles his nose. The place isn’t _dirty_ , exactly, but it feels old, and tarnished in the way that old things are. Only noticeable if you’re looking for it. The displays of meat seem perfectly fresh, but it feels like the shop itself has gone bad. 

“Hello?” Gerard calls out. 

“Just a moment!” calls a voice from the back. 

“So, what was it about the meat?” Michael whispers to Gerard. He wants to make a joke about haunted pork chops, because really, he can’t think of any reason why someone would come to the Magnus Institute and make a statement about meat, but he stops himself when he sees Gerard’s expression. His eyes are hard, and he’s got one hand in his jacket pocket. 

“Gerard?” Michael asks. 

“Let me do the talking,” Gerard says under his breath.

Michael frowns, slightly put out. He’s the one who was originally supposed to take this case. Hell, he’s the one who actually works at the Magnus Institute. “I can do it,” he says. “I-I’ve done it before, I know how to—”

“It’s not about knowing how,” Gerard cuts him off. “It’s about knowing _why_.”

“Well, if you’d just let me read the statement—”

“Can you please just let me—”

“I can do it!” Michael insists. “I know you think I’m just an assistant, but I can do it well, I promise—”

“What? Michael, no, it’s not like that, I just—”

“Can I help you two with something?” asks a man’s voice. Michael snaps to attention, argument forgotten. 

“Sorry,” he says automatically. 

“Yeah, hi,” Gerard says, and the spotlight swivels over to him. “So, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ve heard a couple stories about your shop, and, well.” He smiles briefly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re cold and calculating, almost angry, though Michael can’t imagine why. “Let’s just say it sounds like things aren’t up to code,” he says. “You mind if we take a look around?”

The man behind the counter frowns. “Are you with the health department?” he asks, giving Gerard a suspicious once-over. Michael winces. If he’d known they were going down the lying route, he might’ve told Gerard to leave off the black nail polish. 

But Gerard says, “No. You’re still going to let us look around in peace, though.” 

Michael can barely make out the individual words—just as Gerard starts to speak, there’s this funny hissing noise, like an old radio flipping between stations. He looks around, but there aren’t any speakers nearby. 

When Michael looks back to the man, his expression has gone blank. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, all right. Come on back.” He goes over to a square section of the counter and swings it forward, opening the gate for them. Michael’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

“How did you do that?” he whispers to Gerard. 

Gerard winks at him. “Just my natural charm,” he says. Michael flushes. 

It’s hard to believe that charm alone would make this butcher to let two random strangers walk around his shop, but it certainly seems to have worked, so Michael can’t really fault it. _He’s_ never been able to resist Gerard. 

That’s different, though. He’s the one with a hopeless crush. 

The butcher stands a few feet off to the side, seemingly content to let them roam around as they please. Michael keeps one eye on him as they walk around. “What exactly are we looking for?” he murmurs to Gerard. 

“Like I said,” Gerard murmurs back. “Weird meat.”

“Okay, but the thing is, that’s a very broad description, s-so I don’t see how I’m supposed to—”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Gerard says darkly. He goes off around the corner, deeper into the back room. Michael sticks by the cooler, idly popping the back windows open so he can see inside. There isn’t much to see, really. Fat red steaks and racks of ribs are laid out on ice, labeled with little plastic placards that stick out beside them. They don’t look bad, or particularly high-quality, for that matter. They’re just… normal. 

“So,” says the butcher. “What exactly have you heard about my shop?”

Shit. Michael had been hoping that if Gerard was doing the talking, that would at least exempt him from interaction. “Oh, er, just some rumors,” he says, a little too high-pitched. “We, er, heard there were some strange things about the meat, that, er…” Fuck, he’s terrible at lying. “It just sounded off,” he says vaguely. “Just thought we’d better come and check in, you know, see that everything’s in order.”

The butcher looks unimpressed. “Funny,” he says. “Would’ve expected someone from the Magnus Institute to come up with a better cover story.”

Michael freezes. _Shit._ What now? There’s no way trying to keep up the lie would work out in his favor, but at the same time, he doesn’t really want to confirm that he works for the Institute.

“We can leave,” he blurts out. There. That should work. Foolproof plan. 

The butcher smiles blandly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he says. 

Something about his voice sounds off. Michael draws in a breath to say something, and almost has to cough it back out. There’s an awful scent in the air, like rotted, dead things and stale, coppery blood. 

“Okay,” he says, trying to ignore the smell. Even when he breathes through his mouth, he can taste it on the back of his tongue. “Are we free to stay, then?” 

“Of course,” says the butcher, still with that bland, plastered-on smile. “Stay as long as you’d like.” 

Just as he says it, there’s an awful squelching noise, like something slimy folding over itself. Startled, Michael takes a step back, looking all around. The noise gets louder, coming from somewhere beneath him—and that’s where he sees it. 

Oozing out from beneath the cooler is a mass of wet, bloody viscera. It’s a sickly brownish-red, streaked with thin layers of purple and blue, and coated in mucus that trails across the floor behind it. Michael covers his mouth with his hands. A scream sticks in his lungs, trapped. His brain howls at him to run, but he’s rooted to the spot by terror, unable to tear his eyes away from the monstrous thing.

Sections of it ripple across the floor, sticking out and moving like appendages, carrying it over to the butcher’s feet. It moves horrifyingly quickly, spreading itself over his shoes and swarming up his body, expanding until the meat swallows him, constantly shifting and reforming into shapes that couldn’t possibly hold a human body.

Not an intact one, that is. 

Michael steps backwards, and it’s like the spell on him shatters. “Gerard!” he screeches. As soon as he does, the meat monster lunges. Michael throws himself to the side. He crashes into the counter, and it goes bowling past him. The relief isn’t long, though. It swivels around, sections of meat contorting around themselves like flayed, open muscles, and charges again. 

Michael scrambles forward, cutting across its path to the table in the back of the room. A rack of knives sticks out from the wall. He grabs one and whips around. He’s just in time to see the thing barreling toward him. Michael shrieks and swipes at it with the knife. It slashes through the meat and sticks there. A shiver goes across the monster’s form, but otherwise it shows no pain.

Ropes of fleshy sinew sprout from the cut and wrap around the knife, pulling it in until it’s buried beneath the surface. The monster swells and somehow grows to new heights, towering over Michael with a wet burbling sound that’s almost like laughter. Michael reaches blindly over his shoulder for the knife rack. What an awful way to die. His fingers close around a handle. 

“Hey!” shouts Gerard. “Leave him alone, you ugly piece of shit!”

The monster swings a chunk of itself around as if it’s looking at Gerry. Michael looks up, too. Gerard stands a few feet away with a jug in one hand and a lighter in the other, and he looks absolutely furious. “Get a taste of this,” he says, and hurls the contents of the jug at the monster. What looks like cooking oil splashes over it. It rumbles and shifts toward Gerard. 

Gerard flicks his lighter. 

The monster lurches back all at once. Michael barely has time to react before it slams into him. 

It feels like getting hit with a fifty-ton mass of worms. The smell is worse. Michael almost screams, but the crawling wetness seeps over his skin, and he doesn’t want to give it any way _in._ His arms are pinned to the wall by a roiling lump of flesh. Gerard is shouting something, but he can’t hear over the pounding of his own heart. He wrestles with it, forcing his elbow to bend and bring his knife with it. The blade carves agonizingly slowly through the meat. 

Every inch makes his arms shake with exertion. It’s all he can do to keep the thing from falling into him. He wrenches his knife about halfway through the meaty appendage that has him pinned, and then a searing pain catches him in the stomach. He cries out, his knees buckling. It’s just enough for the monster’s hold on him to slip, and he collapses to the ground.

Immediately, a pair of hands seize his shoulders and drag him back. He sees Gerard step over him. He sees the lighter flare and catch. The flame grows and spreads, enveloping the monster. The air smells like cooked steak. It lumbers for Gerry, but pieces of it begin to drop and fall away, burning to a charred crisp in the fire. 

Michael doesn’t get to see it die. As soon as it’s subdued, Gerard turns and drops to the ground, frantic. “Oh my God, Michael, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think the compulsion would wear off that fast,” he babbles. “Are you okay? Please say you’re okay, fuck.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, shoving Michael’s sweater up. Distantly, Michael thinks that this should be getting more of a reaction from him. 

“What just happened?” he asks dazedly. 

“Don’t worry about that. You’re going to be fine, I promise, I— _shit_.” Gerard pulls out his phone, keeping the other pressed over Michael’s stomach. His hand is covered in blood. 

Michael looks down. 

His sweater is stained bright red, and his skin is worse. Gerard has his hand over a burning flash-point of pain, where blood continues to ooze out from between his fingers. Michael’s head swims.

“When did that happen?” he asks faintly.

“You shoved a knife into it,” Gerard says grimly. “So it spat it back out at you.”

“Oh. Sorry about that,” Michael mumbles. 

He doesn’t even hear Gerard’s response, as blackness eats away at the edge of his vision and he falls unconscious.

***

Michael wakes up to a steady beeping noise. The air smells strange, stuffy, like old plastic and disinfectant. He squints his eyes open.

He’s in a hospital bed. Why does this not surprise him?

What _does_ surprise him is the fact that Gerard is sitting next to his bed, looking at his phone. Michael shifts up onto his elbows, and Gerard’s head snaps up. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, hey, don’t try to move too much.” He grabs Michael’s hand. 

Michael takes a deep breath, looking around. “What happened?” he asks. 

Gerard pauses. “What do you remember?”

Michael looks at him for a long moment.

“Weird meat,” he says. 

A smile twitches across Gerry’s face. Michael feels himself smile back, and then a giggle slips out, and then he’s laughing, in huffy little bursts that make his sides ache. Gerard squeezes his hand. “Careful,” he says. “Don’t break your stitches.”

“My—oh.” Michael’s smile fades away. Shit, it’s coming back to him now. Memories of fear echo back to him and make him shiver. “What the hell was that thing?” he asks. 

“Something you never should’ve had to deal with,” Gerard says. He looks at Michael with soft dark eyes, and Michael realizes with a jolt that he’s actually worried. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, a stab of guilt going through him. “I never should have stuck that knife in it, this is my fault, I—”

“No, no, wait, what?” Gerard puts his other hand on Michael’s, clutching it tight. “Michael, this isn’t your fault, what the fuck are you talking about?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s _mine_. I should’ve warned you what we were walking into, and I definitely shouldn’t have left you on your own, Christ.”

Michael’s brain finally catches up to the fact that Gerard is holding his hand. His heart monitor beeps faster. He tries to telepathically will it into silence. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Gerard says, seemingly oblivious. “I was looking in the back for something I could burn it with, and I didn’t hear it go after you at first. I should’ve just had you follow me. I never meant for this to happen, I—” He looks away, exhaling shakily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really fucking sorry, Michael.”

“It’s okay,” Michael says. “You… you did save my life, you know.”

“Only because I put it in danger,” says Gerard. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me.”

“It’s fine,” Michael says with a small smile. “I wanted to come. I…” _wanted to show you that I could do it,_ he doesn’t say. Because in the end, he’d done the exact opposite, hadn’t he? He’d had no idea what he was getting himself into. 

Gerard looks at him searchingly. “Michael,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You do know that… you know I think you’re really good at what you do, right?” Gerard asks. “I know I can be a bit of a shithead sometimes, but I really don’t think of you as just an archival assistant, you… you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Michael flushes. Shit, is he that obvious? He’s always assumed that Gerard must have some respect for him, given that he treats Michael like a friend more than a coworker these days, but it’s still nice to hear it out loud. “Yeah,” he says. “I, er. Yeah, I figured. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“But,” Michael says carefully. “I do think… I-I might be wrong, but it does seem like there are some things that… that you aren’t telling me. So. Could you start there, if you don’t mind?”

Gerard nods, mostly to himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think it’s about time.” He sighs. “God, I don’t even know where to start,” he says. “Okay. You believe in the supernatural, right? I mean, obviously, after all that, but.” Michael nods. “Okay, good. Because what I’m about to tell you is pretty damn hard to believe, but I need you to trust me, because it just might save your life.”

“Gerard,” Michael says nervously. “Can you—”

“Gerry,” Gerard interrupts.

Michael blinks. “What?”

“I don’t know why you’re still calling me Gerard after all this,” says Gerard. “My friends call me Gerry.”

“I… okay. Gerry. I can do that.” Michael smiles widely. If anyone questions it, he’ll blame it on the painkillers. 

“Anyway,” says Gerry. Michael had almost forgotten what they were talking about. His smile drops away at once. 

He gets the feeling that he’s not going to like the answers to his questions. 

“Basically…” Gerry winces. “Okay, imagine if everything people could possibly be afraid of was divided into fourteen categories. And those categories were actually entities, like gods, kind of, that embodied particular fears and were sustained by them. Following so far?”

As he speaks, icy cold seeps through Michael’s body, leaving him frozen. Somehow, he’s curled into himself, fingers digging hard into his arms. “I think so,” he says, his own voice distant and unfamiliar. 

“Good. Now, imagine that those beings can’t directly exist in our world, so instead, they use monsters and human servants to carry out their will.” Gerry frowns to himself, then waves his hand. “Okay, _will_ isn’t the right word, really, but this is the SparkNotes version. What I’m trying to say is, all this shit is quite unfortunately real. A lot of the statements you collect at the Institute are from people who’ve encountered one of those entities.”

Michael focuses on breathing. In for four, out for four. His fingertips are pressed into his arms hard enough to ache. It keeps him grounded, at least.

This can’t be real. It’s too much, too impossible—it _can’t_ be true. But why would Gerry lie to him? 

And why does it fit so well into everything Michael’s noticed in his time at the Institute?

He’s not stupid. He’s seen the patterns in some of the statements, the way people have remarkably similar experiences with family members being stolen and replaced, or infestations that grow far nastier than the usual kind. Those ones have always felt different than the rest.

Especially the ones about doors.

“When you say these things embody certain fears,” Michael says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “Is there… th-there wouldn’t happen to be one that’s about the fear of… of madness, or hallucinations, would there?”

“The Spiral,” Gerry says softly. “That’s exactly what it is.”

Michael lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he says. “I believe you.”

Gerry blinks. “Really? Just like that?”

Michael nods shortly. “I’ve seen things,” is all he says. Gerry seems to understand, and doesn’t ask any questions. 

“I know it’s hard to adjust to,” he says. “But… that wasn’t actually the important bit.”

Michael tenses. “What’s the important bit?”

Gerry hesitates. “There’s… there’s one called the Eye,” he says. “Or the Beholding, or the Ceaseless Watcher—they all have a bunch of stupid names, the Eye works well enough. Anyway, it’s the fear of being watched, or having your greatest secrets exposed, or knowing that something is letting you suffer just so it can watch… It’s… It’s got a lot to do with knowledge.”

The silence stretches out. Michael’s heart monitor beeps through it. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. “And?” he whispers.

“And the Institute belongs to it,” Gerry says. “That’s why it exists. To take in stories about people’s suffering, and drink them all in without really doing anything about it. It’s all just fuel for the Eye.”

Oh. That _is_ an important bit. 

“Before you ask, no, you can’t quit,” says Gerry. “It won’t let you.”

Michael hadn’t even thought of that yet. But now that Gerry’s put the thought in his head, it becomes obvious—if the Institute is complicit in something evil, people ought to know, they ought to be able to leave if they want to. “W-we should tell people, shouldn’t we?” Michael asks. “I’m sure if they knew how bad things were, they’d want to leave, I…” He trails off. Gerry isn’t looking at him. Unease creeps up his spine. “What?” he asks.

Gerry is quiet for a minute. “Most of them already know, Michael,” he says. 

“What?” Michael says blankly. “Wh—but that’s—that can’t be right, tha-that doesn’t make any sense.” If people knew, they would leave—but then again, if Gerry’s telling the truth, they can’t. Fine, then. If they knew, they would do something about it.

If they knew, someone would have _told him._

“What do you mean, they already know?” Michael says in a small voice.

“I mean what I said. I’m sorry,” Gerry says, and it does sound like he means it. “I assumed you knew at first. After that, it seemed kinder not to say anything, but then…” A bitter look crosses his face. “Then you got hurt, and Gertrude still didn’t do anything, so enough was enough.”

“She knows?” Michael says incredulously. “G-Gertrude Robinson, the Archivist? Her?”

“She’s not what you think she is,” Gerry says. “You know what I said about the entities working through human servants?” Michael nods. “Yeah, she’s one of them. The Archivist has… a special role. Underestimating her can be deadly; there’s a lot more to her than meets the eye.” The ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “No pun intended.”

Michael shakes his head, at a loss for words. It should be funny, that _this_ is the revelation that gets his head spinning, not the whole eldritch-fear-gods thing. He just can’t picture it. Little old Gertrude Robinson, deadly? It doesn’t process. 

“And another thing,” Gerry says.

“There’s more?” Michael asks, dismayed.

Gerry winces. “Unfortunately. The whole human servants thing—well, we call them avatars—but they… they don’t always get a full choice in the matter. Not all of them go to the Beholding willingly, and so you end up with some who…” He runs a hand through his hair, looking away. “Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck, why is this so hard.” He looks back and says, “Michael, I’m one of them.”

Michael freezes. “You what?” 

“I’m one of them,” Gerry says tiredly. “The Eye, that’s my patron. I didn’t ask for it, but it chose me.”

Michael feels slightly sick. “S-so you… you work for it?”

“No,” Gerry says forcefully. Michael startles. “It might have a hold on me, and I have certain things that I have to do to keep it from killing me, or worse, but I don’t work for it. I’ve spent my entire life _fighting_ these things, I’d never swear allegiance to one.”

“Okay,” Michael says. None of his questions feel like the right ones. He gets the sense he should be having a stronger reaction to this. If Gerry is… is somehow bound to some supernatural entity, shouldn’t that be scary? Or shocking, at the very least? Michael should probably be upset. That feels like an appropriate reaction.

But he’s mostly just confused. 

“So, if you’re not working for it, what _do_ you do?” Michael asks. 

Gerry shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, you’ve seen it. I burn books. I try to help people. I’m just a person, except sometimes I have to spend time in the archives and read through the statements.” He must notice Michael’s confusion, because he adds, “The Eye has to be fed. If I don’t give it other people’s stories, it’ll take mine, and I prefer giving it ones that were voluntarily written down.”

“Voluntarily?” Michael questions. 

Gerry grimaces. “Yeah. That’s another thing. I have this…” He rubs his eyes. “The Eye gives its avatars certain _abilities,_ ” he says. “You saw me use one of them, last time, the compulsion.”

“Compulsion?” Michael echoes. “Like making people do things?” Gerry hadn’t done anything to the monster, except burn it to death. He hadn’t made it… 

But he did make the shop owner let them in. 

“Oh,” Michael says, his eyes widening. “Was that what that was?”

Gerry nods. “I can ask people questions, and they have to answer me, whether or not they want to. Sometimes I can force them to do things. I try not to use it often, though. Only when I really need to.”

That’s… that _is_ a little scary, Michael has to admit, but it sounds more useful than anything else, especially if Gerry is trying to fight back against these monsters. It could definitely be worse. “What else can you do?” he asks, his curiosity getting the best of him.

Gerry bites his lip. “I…” Michael could be mistaken, but it almost looks like there’s a faint trace of a blush in his cheeks. “I can know things I really shouldn’t,” he says. “Like, just supernaturally _Know,_ the facts just pop into my head out of nowhere.”

“That sounds useful,” says Michael. 

Gerry half-smiles. “In some ways,” he says. “But it’s tricky. I can control it most of the time, tune it out, but sometimes I find out things that hurt me, or that could hurt other people…” His smile fades. “It’s hard,” he says. “Sometimes it feels like I know everything except what to do with the knowledge.”

Michael nods. “That’s understandable,” he says. 

Gerry pauses. “You think so?” he asks.

“Yeah. I-I can’t say I know what it’s like, but i-it seems like you’re, you know, making the best of what you have,” Michael says awkwardly. Gerry certainly doesn’t seem like a monster. Maybe that’s a mistake, to assume that things are what they seem—after all, Michael’s just been told that his entire _world_ isn’t what he thought it was. But he’s always felt safe with Gerry, and that’s not a feeling he can unlearn on the spot.

Gerry doesn’t seem any less on edge, though. “I’m trying,” he says. “I really am. Just… remember that, I guess.” He takes in a deep breath, and for a moment, he almost looks like he’s going to say something more.

Then he gets up, pulling his jacket close around his shoulders. “I should go,” he says abruptly. “I know this is a lot to process, I should give you some space.”

Michael falters. “What?” he asks. “B-but I just woke up, I…” Shit, how long had he been asleep? Maybe Gerry’s already been here for hours and hours. He must be exhausted, too; he deserves a break. “Okay,” says Michael, crushing the disappointment that wells up within him. “Will you be back?”

“I…” Gerry goes quiet. “Just take some time and think,” he says. “Please. And if you decide you still want me around after that, then I’ll—”

“Gerry!” Michael protests. “Of course I do, you’re—”

“Has any of this even registered for you yet?” Gerry asks. “The monsters under the bed are real, Michael. And one of them is part of me. Take a moment to think before you decide that doesn’t bother you.”

Michael opens his mouth, at a loss for words. In the time it takes him to search for something to say, Gerry sweeps out the door.

Michael deflates. 

Maybe he’s right.

***

It takes a while for things to start to really hit Michael, especially during his allotted week off for emotional and physical recovery. At first, when there’s no tangible proof that anything has changed, it’s easy to slip into denial. He can pretend he’s just a normal guy with a normal job and nothing to be afraid of. 

But then he goes back to work, and Gertrude doesn’t talk the same way she used to. 

Michael almost drops his mug of tea the first time she hears it. Something physical about her has dropped away, like a mask she’s tossed aside; all her words and motions are more brusque. Michael searches for any trace of the fragility he’s always seen in her, and there’s nothing to be found. She doesn’t talk to him about any of it. She doesn’t offer any explanations, even when he tries to ask. Michael gets the distinct impression that she’s not happy with his newfound knowledge, and he still doesn’t understand why. 

It rattles him more than he’d like to admit. He still does everything she asks, and tries to keep up with his work, but there’s a sour note running underneath it all, a feeling that he’s surrounded by strangers. He hears new names: the Desolation, the Slaughter, the Vast. He reads about the Spiral, and the maddening doorways that remind him of his childhood, and memories he’d rather forget. When he’s home, he keeps the lights on all through the night, and plays music through his earbuds so he doesn’t have to think about what might be lurking in the Dark. 

And there’s no sign of Gerry.

Despite it all, Michael still can’t bring himself to be afraid of him. The Eye is less frightening than the other entities, somehow. Maybe because it’s the one he’s spent the past few years unknowingly aiding. . But the fact of the matter is, he doesn’t care if Gerry’s an avatar. Based on the things Michael has been reading lately, it seems like Gerry is very different from the rest of them, and that’s a good thing. _He’s_ a good thing. 

Michael lays in bed with all the lights on, blankets thrown over his head like a child, and shivers his way through the nights. It would be easier if he had someone else. Just one person’s company would be enough to keep the fear at bay.

Just one person.

***

_Gerry shoves Michael back. Michael hits the wall hard, and the breath is knocked out of him as Gerry presses a finger over his lips. “Shh,” he whispers. “Listen to me. I want you to be very, very quiet now. Can you do that for me?”_

_Michael nods fervently. “Good,” says Gerry. “I’ll hold you to that.”_

_Michael responds by closing his lips over Gerry’s finger. Gerry slips in a second, and Michael closes his eyes, sucking them blissfully. “Fuck, Michael,” Gerry murmurs. “Already so good.” He presses his knee between Michael’s thighs, and Michael gasps, his eyes flying back open. Gerry smirks. “Do you want something?”_

_”Yes,” Michael whispers. “Please.”_

_Gerry raises his eyebrows. “Did I say you could talk?” he asks. “Hmm. You know… I don’t think I did.” He slides his fingers from Michael’s mouth and runs them down the side of his neck to his bare chest, grazing over his nipple. Michael keeps his mouth shut, breathing heavily. Gerry grins. “All right. You can talk now.”_

_Michael surges forward and kisses him hard. “Touch me, please,” he begs._

_Gerry breathes out a laugh. “All you had to do was ask,” he says, and his hand wanders down to cup Michael through his pants._

At the first touch, Michael wakes up, breathless and so hard it makes him dizzy. 

He doesn’t think before shoving his hand into his briefs. The dream is fast escaping him, but just the thought of Gerry pinning him back and talking to him in that filthy-sweet voice is more than enough to have him gasping as he works his hand around his dick. He needs it. He tilts his hips up, pushing into the friction. It’s so good he could drown in it. 

He doesn’t even hesitate before taking his free hand and rubbing his nipple. It sends a shock of heat straight down. He feels so dirty like this, getting himself off on a desperate wet dream, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s not like Gerry will ever know. He can’t read Michael’s mind. 

Unless… 

Oh, God.

 _”I can know things I really shouldn’t,”_ Gerry had said. Michael’s heart seizes. Does that apply to thoughts? Fuck, _could_ it? No, no, it couldn’t, he would have said something if it did. That would be an obvious privacy issue; he would want Michael to know. 

Unless. 

He’s been able to see the things Michael’s been daydreaming about for so long. Unless he knows _exactly_ how much Michael likes it when he teases, and he’s been keeping a straight face this entire time, just watching as Michael’s fantasies slip into Gerry tying his hands back and pushing into him with a vibrator until he’s shaking. 

He can’t know. He just can’t. If he did, that would be… it would…

Fuck, he would know how Michael dreams of Gerry fucking him senseless when they’re _right next to each other._

Michael’s orgasm crashes over him without warning, so hard his toes curl. 

He lays there for a while, dazed and sticky, his mind too cloudy to be really concerned.

Once it starts to clear, he forces himself to relax. He’s just being paranoid. 

There’s no way Gerry actually knows.

***

Gerry doesn’t show up at the Institute for a few weeks. His unexplained absence gnaws at Michael’s insides. He tells himself it’s a coincidence. If Gerry knew about Michael’s feelings for him, he would say something, find a way to let Michael down gently; he wouldn’t just avoid him. But if Gerry _isn’t_ deliberately avoiding him, then the alternatives are much more frightening. Michael is still trying to process the existence of actual, real eldritch fear gods, and doing it alone only makes it harder. Every day without Gerry is another sign that he could’ve been killed by a flesh monster, or eaten by bugs, or burned alive by the fiery cult that calls itself the Lightless Flame. 

Michael tries not to stress out about it, but he worries himself sick all the same. It’s just how he is.

When Gerry finally shows up again, Michael almost misses it. He catches a quick flash of a black jacket turning a corner, and his heart jumps. He scrambles down the hallway and skids around the corner, and there he is—Gerry, walking away and seemingly uninjured. “Wait!” Michael yells. “Gerry!” 

Gerry stops and turns back. “Michael?” 

“Hi! Oh, thank God you’re okay.” Michael hurries up to him. Up close, Gerry looks totally fine—a little sleep-deprived, maybe, the circles under his eyes a little darker than normal, but he hasn’t been torn to bits by a monster. 

Which means that wasn’t why he was away. 

He hasn’t gotten any closer to Michael, or even greeted him, really. 

Shit. If he really was staying away on purpose, Michael has just made this supremely awkward. 

“I, erm.” Michael ducks his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I was just worried, you know? After last time, I-I didn’t know if you’d gone off and, and gotten yourself hurt or something, I’m sorry.”

“What? Michael, no, what are you apologizing for?” Gerry touches his shoulder. Michael is startled into looking up, right into his eyes, soft with concern. It’s all he can do not to melt right then and there.

“I-I don’t know,” he says. “I just thought, well, you don’t need me worrying about you, do you? You’ve got your own things keeping you busy, i-it’s not like, like you have to come and check in with me to say you’re all right—”

“If you want me to, I will,” Gerry says simply. 

Michael gapes. He doesn’t know what response he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I,” he says, and closes his mouth again before he says something really stupid. Once he’s sure he can control his own speech, he asks, “You would do that?”

Gerry nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean to worry you. If I’d known…” He sighs and looks away, frowning a little. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d care much if I was gone,” he says. “I mean, you know everything now. What I am. What I do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael says immediately. “Not to me. You’re still the same person, and you still fight monsters, s-so I don’t care about the rest of it. You’re still…” He swallows hard. “You’re still my friend.”

Gerry studies him closely. “You aren’t scared of me?” he asks, sounding skeptical. 

Michael shakes his head. Gerry isn’t a monster. Sure, he might have some supernatural powers, but Michael can barely even call those wrong, not when his brain spends half its energy thinking of ways they could be used for decidedly more enjoyable purposes. Objectively, he knows that Gerry has probably done some… questionable things with them. Bad things, even. But Michael doesn’t care. He trusts Gerry.

He’s not scared of him in any way that’s not exhilarating in equal measure. 

“It’s okay,” Michael says. “I promise.”

Something in the way Gerry holds himself shifts, and all at once, he looks more relaxed. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” says Michael. 

“I was serious about checking in, though,” says Gerry. “If that’s something you want, I’d do it. Anything for you. What are friends for, right?”

Michael smiles in spite of himself. “I—yes, exactly,” he says. “I-I think I would like that, if it’s not too much of a bother.”

Gerry grins wider. “All you have to do is ask,” he says, and turns to keep walking down the hall. He gestures for Michael to follow him, not looking back. “Come with me,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Wh-what are we doing?” Michael asks, hurrying to catch up. 

“Oh, the usual,” Gerry says contentedly. “Burning books, hunting monsters, saving the world. I assume you’re in?”

“Definitely,” Michael says, grinning so wide it makes his cheeks hurt.

***

The shelves before Michael look like a tornado has ripped through them.

“Oh,” he says bleakly. “That… that is rather a mess, isn’t it.”

“You can say that again,” Gerry mutters. 

Michael sighs. “You don’t have to stay,” he says. “I know Gertrude only asked you to help because you were here, it’s not your job. I can handle it on my own.”

Any traces of resentment in Gerry’s expression are wiped away at once. “No, I’m staying,” he insists. “I wouldn’t just leave you to deal with this on your own, Michael, who do you think I am?”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to!” says Michael, but Gerry is already stepping over the mountain of broken containers and scattered documents, armed with packing tape and sheer determination. 

Michael isn’t sure what exactly happened to this place. All he knows is that _something_ got loose from Artifact Storage, tore its way across the Institute to the archives, and managed to wreck a sizable area of shelving before the Artifact Storage workers got it back into containment. Apparently, it didn’t leave any contamination, but Michael is still apprehensive to touch anything.

Gerry shows no such reserve. He sets to work righting the upended boxes and taping together the ones that haven’t been shredded beyond recognition. Michael gets down on the floor beside him and starts to sift through the mess of documents.

Gertrude’s filing system is so chaotic that putting it back together is nearly impossible. Michael puzzles over loose newspaper clippings and photographs, half of which have no labels or markers indicating which files they belong with. After a while, he decides to stop trying to guess what should go where, and starts sorting the statements into something resembling chronological order. Better to start with a smaller, more manageable task. 

It’s still boring as hell, though.

Michael sighs and tosses aside a single diary page, laying back across the floor. The tile is cool against his back. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply to clear his head.

“Hey,” says Gerry’s amused voice. “Don’t go falling asleep again.”

“That was _one_ time,” Michael says crossly. 

“That’s once too many! I’m quite disappointed in you, Michael, I thought you took your duties as an archival assistant very seriously—”

“Shut up.”

“I’m sure Gertrude wouldn’t approve of such negligence.”

“I’m just resting,” Michael mumbles. “Leave me alone.”

A sudden weight on his chest makes him huff out a breath of surprise. He opens his eyes to see Gerry with one boot positioned just over his heart. He holds it there, not pressing down, just keeping Michael in place with a smirk. “Get up,” he says. 

Michael’s heart stutters. The moment he feels it, he gives himself a mental kick. He can’t find _this_ attractive. He’s not so submissive that he _literally_ wants to be stepped on. That would be ridiculous. 

Ridiculous.

“How am I supposed to get up like this?” he asks belatedly. 

“Well, you have to say you’ll stay on task first,” Gerry says innocently. “You can’t leave all the work to me and expect me to let it slide.”

MIchael sighs. “Fine. I will not take two seconds to rest my eyes, are you happy?”

Gerry presses down once on his chest, then lets him go, putting his boot back on the floor. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’m pretty sure half of these boxes are unusable. Do you want to go and break the news to Gertrude that we need new ones, or should I?”

Michael sits up, still processing the fact that Gerry is apparently comfortable enough around him to make his teasing physical, and the fact that he still finds it very unfortunately attractive. “I,” he says, his thoughts gradually falling back into order. He blinks. “Right, er, I think I should go with you,” he says. “Better to have some support for that kind of mission. A-a united front, and all that.”

Gerry sticks out his hand. Michael uses it to pull himself to his feet. “If she kills both of us, you want to come back and haunt her?” Gerry asks.

Michael winces. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Gerry laughs. “Hopefully not. I appreciate the support, though. I’ll find a way to pay you back.” He winks at Michael and starts back down the way they’d come.

Michael takes a deep breath. Five minutes, he thinks. If he could just control himself around Gerry for five minutes, that would be an accomplishment.

***

Gerry sits on the other side of Michael’s office, a massive book open in his lap. Michael doesn’t ask what he’s working on. He’s scribbling down notes in his pocket notebook, which means it’s probably something important. He only writes in that thing when he needs to get something down quickly, so whatever he’s doing, it must be time-sensitive. Maybe there’s an avatar causing trouble. That kind of news would probably come from more modern sources, though, not old cracked-leather books. Maybe it’s another Leitner. That would make more sense.

Michael returns his attention to his own laptop. He’s typing up a report about a recent investigation. It’s starting to seem like the statement was bogus. Now that he knows about Smirke’s Fourteen, it’s a lot easier to tell which statements are legitimate and which aren’t. He’d thought this one might have been the Hunt, or even the Eye, but in actuality, it was probably just an everyday stalker.

Not that he doesn’t feel bad for the statement-giver, of course. But that’s not his department, and it’s hard to muster the motivation to write up the details of something that’s so unpleasant without being directly relevant to his work. 

He manages to get through another couple of paragraphs before his attention starts to wander. He sneaks a glance at Gerry, who hasn’t looked up once. His hair is falling into his face, and he brushes it back absentmindedly, his pen scratching at the pages of his notebook. 

It’s nice to have the opportunity to just… look. Michael always wants to look at Gerry, mesmerized by his every feature, from his deep-set eyes so often lined with heavy makeup, to the faint scruff along his jawline and the piercings scattered around his face. He’s gorgeous. Just as Michael’s thinking it, Gerry furrows his brow in concentration, chewing at his lip piercing. Michael zeroes in on it. 

It’s not like he’s obsessed with Gerry’s lip ring, but he just… he wants to know what it would feel like. He’s never kissed anyone with piercings before. It might be nice to get his teeth on it. In an ideal world, Gerry would put that book down and let him try it right away. An office door is easy enough to lock; no one would ever know if Gerry got down on his knees and told Michael to hold still. Maybe he’d even do it in that special supernatural way of his, where his voice rings with static, and Michael would be helpless to disobey. Michael shivers. He’s not sure if the Beholding’s powers make people _try_ to follow orders, or if they physically force people to carry them out. He’d like to imagine it’s the latter, so Gerry could tell him he’s not allowed to come yet, and he wouldn’t— 

Gerry sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can you stop?” he says tiredly.

Michael snaps his attention back to his laptop. “S-stop what?” he asks, his hands frozen over his keyboard. 

“You _know_.”

Michael’s mouth goes dry. “I-I don’t… sorry?”

“It’s not a problem, I just… I’m trying to concentrate, and it’s really, really hard when you’re over there,” Gerry waves his hand with a grimace, “Thinking.”

Michael goes stock still. His heart plummets to his feet like a rock. He wishes it would weigh him straight down through the floor so the ground could swallow him. 

This cannot be happening. This is a nightmare. This cannot be real. 

“Please tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying,” he says blankly. 

Gerry winces. “Okay, fair, that was definitely not the best way to introduce this,” he says. “I was going to say something sooner, I swear, but it just never felt like the right time, and you’re just—I don’t know, _loud_ , it’s kind of hard to ignore—”

“Oh my God,” Michael says, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingers. He feels sick. “You—you can—”

“Know what people are thinking, yes,” Gerry says, burying his face in his hands. “Fuck, I really didn’t think this through, I’m sorry—”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he _knows_. Maybe not all of it, but certainly enough. Michael’s head spins. Without thinking, he pushes his chair back, grabbing his laptop and folding it under his arm. “Wait,” Gerry says quickly. “Wait, Michael, it’s okay! You don’t have to—”

Michael is out the door before Gerry can finish his sentence.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks desperately as he runs down the hall, his face burning with mortification. _I’m so, so sorry._

***

Michael doesn’t know where Gerry is. Maybe he’s in the Institute; maybe he’s miles away, fighting a monster for a book. It’s better if Michael doesn’t know. 

He’s taken to locking his office door, and never lingering too long in the open shelves of the archives. Any way to minimize the chances of running across Gerry. It hurts to cut him off, but Michael’s used to being alone. He always was before. And the dull ache of loneliness is better than the all-consuming embarrassment that paralyzes him whenever he thinks about the last time they saw each other.

He’s really fucked up this time. 

It’s okay, though. It’s not like he hasn’t embarrassed himself before. Hell, it’s not like he hasn’t gotten his heart broken in the past. With a little time, the shame will fade, and he’ll get over it. That’s what he tells himself. 

It’s harder when there are knocks on his office door, and he doesn’t answer out of fear of what voice might respond. He doesn’t _know_ that it’s Gerry, of course. But he knows what Gerry’s combat boots sound like against the tile floor, and when they walk away, he doesn’t know if he should feel disappointed or relieved. 

Michael throws himself into his work, volunteering whenever Gertrude needs someone to go and follow up about a statement. It’s good to get outside the Institute, into the real world, where life keeps on moving, and no one knows him or the things he’s done. He has a couple close encounters with what _might_ have been flesh-hives, but he doesn’t die, and the nightmares are manageable. It’s the waking up alone that hurts more. 

After a few weeks, Michael has almost convinced himself he’s fine. He starts venturing into the archives more often, and he unlocks his door. He goes to the break room for cups of tea when it’s not too busy. He even thinks about Gerry, sometimes. Nothing like before—even the most idle fantasies make his stomach twist with guilt and embarrassment—but simple daydreams of holding his hand, or just getting to see him again. 

They’re all completely impossible, of course. If Michael hadn’t wrecked their friendship before, the weeks of avoidance will certainly have done the job for him. That’s what makes the daydreaming safe.

At least, that’s what he thinks. 

It’s a trip to the break room that does it. He’s just heating up a quick pot of tea, something to warm his hands while he’s looking over statements, tapping his fingers against the counter as he watches the water boil. He doesn’t even register the door opening. 

“Oh,” says a voice from behind him. “Hi.”

Michael freezes. He doesn’t need to turn around; he knows Gerry’s voice, and he doesn’t want to see the look on his face. He quickly switches the stove off. “Sorry,” he says. “I won’t—I er. Sorry.” He swiftly turns around and keeps his head down, intending to walk right past Gerry and out the door.

He almost makes it before Gerry throws out his arm, barring his exit. “Don’t go,” he says wearily. “It’s been ages, Michael, I just want to—”

Michael does not think about Gerry’s arm keeping him in place. “I shouldn’t be here anyway,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I-I’ve got work to do, I should really head back.”

“You don’t have to run away from me.”

“I’m not _running_!” Michael snaps. He turns his head automatically, and that’s his first mistake. Gerry looks so tired, and upset, like this hurts him almost as much as it hurts Michael. 

And he’s still beautiful.

Michael’s resolve wavers. “I mean, come on, you can’t tell me you can actually stand to be around me,” he says, trying for sarcasm. It comes out small and scared instead. 

“Of course I can!” Gerry says, stricken. “That’s—Michael, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. I wanted to apologize.”

“You…” Michael pauses. “What do you have to apologize for? You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t have to,” Gerry says with a sigh. He brushes his hair out of his face and makes a vague gesture. “I… Look, I’m not great at this avatar stuff, okay? I can’t always control it. But that’s my problem, not yours. I know it’s a complete invasion of privacy, I could’ve tried harder, I just—I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

Michael bites back a hysterical laugh. God, he wishes it were that fucking simple. If it was a matter of hurt, he could heal from it, and forgive Gerry in an instant. But the problem is, it _didn’t_ hurt him, not entirely; there’s still a guilty little part of him that thinks back to Gerry telling him off for having a dirty mind and finds it inescapably, unbearably hot. 

Gerry’s eyes go wide.

Michael’s heart stops beating.

The rush of heat to his face is immediate. “Oh God,” he breathes. “You—d-did you just hear that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Gerry says immediately. “I’m sorry, it just caught me by surprise—”

“No, it’s my fault,” says Michael. His face is burning. “I’m so sorry, fuck, I-I didn’t— _fuck_.” Michael covers his face with his hands. His chest is a twisted knot of mortification; he wishes he could curl up into a ball and disappear. “I’m sorry,” he says again. His eyes are stinging, because this just couldn’t get any worse. “I’m sorry, Gerry, I’m so stupid, I—”

“Hey.” Gerry grabs onto his wrists, and Michael forgets to breathe. “Stop apologizing.” 

Michael shuts his mouth. 

“Breathe,” Gerry says firmly. 

Michael does. He’s still covering his eyes. He can’t see Gerry’s expression, but something in his voice sounds different, stronger in a way that makes Michael’s heart stutter. 

“Look at me,” Gerry orders. Michael slowly lowers his hands. 

Gerry looks at him intently. Michael can’t look away. He wasn’t wrong; there’s definitely something different about this, the energy’s changed. He stays still, not daring to risk shattering the moment. If Gerry backs away now, he doesn’t know what he would do. His heart is racing. It’s not from embarrassment anymore. It’s a flutter of excitement that he couldn’t control if he tried. 

There’s silence between them, except for the faintly audible sound of Michael’s heavy breathing. 

“Back up,” says Gerry. 

At once, Michael moves back. He doesn’t stop until he’s a few feet from the counter. Gerry slowly walks up to him, his eyes flicking up and down in a once-over. Michael grabs the edge of the countertop, as if that will hide the fact that his hands are trembling. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. Gerry steps closer, so there’s barely any space between them. 

“I didn’t think that would work,” he says, raising his eyebrows. 

Michael can barely breathe. “Well,” he says, “it did.”

“It did,” says Gerry.

Very slowly, he reaches out and tucks a lock of Michael’s hair behind his ear, running his fingers down across Michael’s jaw. “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he whispers. “Trust me.”

It sends a shiver down Michael’s spine. He might die like this. He might actually die if Gerry keeps looking at him like that, so intense and focused, his posture radiating a calm, assertive force. He looks like he could react to anything in a split second—hold Michael back if he tried to slip away, or kiss him if Michael leaned in to try.

Michael wants to try. He wants to try so badly it hurts, but he can’t move.

“Gerry,” he says unsteadily. “What are we—”

“Shh.” Gerry touches a finger to Michael’s lips. Michael shuts up. His face floods with warmth. He can feel the flush all over his body, especially when the heat starts to coil in the pit of his stomach. He’s dizzyingly turned on, he’s _been_ turned on, ever since Gerry grabbed his hands, but this is… this isn’t just a fantasy. It’s a white-hot current running between the both of them. 

Hardly able to believe his own daring, Michael parts his lips ever so slightly. 

Gerry inhales sharply. He traces his finger along Michael’s lower lip, and finally, _finally_ slips it into his mouth. Michael sighs and closes his lips around it, swirling his tongue around Gerry’s fingertip. It’s everything he’s ever imagined. It only lasts a moment before Gerry pulls out again, though. He backs away, and for a moment, Michael’s heart falls, but he only goes to shut the door.

He locks it with a loud _click._

Then he comes back, just as close, just as tantalizing. “Michael, I want you to be very clear with me right now,” he says quietly. “What do you want?”

“Anything,” Michael whispers. 

“I said clear, Michael.” Gerry leans in, brushing his lips across Michael’s jawline, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and directly in Michael’s ear. “I know what you’ve been thinking about, but the real thing is different,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

Michael’s knees go weak. “I,” he says, and swallows hard. “I want you to do everything I was thinking about,” he manages. “All of it.”

Gerry’s breath is hot against his neck. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks. Michael nods, blushing furiously. “I need to hear it from you, Michael. Give me a yes.”

“Yes,” Michael says in a rush. “Y-yes, I want you to, please.”

“Thank fucking God,” Gerry growls. He crowds Michael back against the counter, hands finding his hips, and kisses him hard. Michael melts into it at once, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. It’s a hot, wet slide of his lips on Gerry’s, filthy from the fucking start, Gerry running his tongue along Michael’s lip and biting down. Michael grabs a fistful of his jacket. He’s hard in his jeans, and he knows Gerry can feel it, _knows_ with the same awful, sweet flush of embarrassment that makes him want to strip down and let Gerry take every single inch of him.

Gerry’s hand slides up and tangles into Michael’s hair. Michael’s breath hitches. Gerry responds by sucking on his lip. He keeps Michael in place, kissing him for another minute before he yanks his head back. “Jesus Christ,” he says roughly. “Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve been doing to me?” 

Michael shakes his head mutely. 

“God. Every fucking time you’d start thinking about _this_ ,” Gerry tugs on Michael’s hair, “I’d have to act like it was nothing. You just sat there all innocent, like you weren’t thinking about getting on your knees for me.” He shakes his head. “And even after I told you I could Know things. I thought you might be doing it on purpose, trying to rile me up.”

“I wasn’t,” Michael says breathlessly. “I-I didn’t know that you knew. I just,” he swallows, “hoped.”

“Jesus,” Gerry says under his breath. He lets his hand drop down to Michael’s side again, following the slope of his waist. “I tried not to pay attention,” he says, leaning into Michael’s neck and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin. Michael shivers. “I really tried,” Gerry continues. “But it was hard. You think _really_ loudly.” Michael can feel the curve of his lips when he grins. “Made me wonder what else you were loud about.”

A strangled little noise escapes Michael’s throat. Gerry bites down gently on his neck, his hands coming to rest at Michael’s hips. They slip up beneath his sweater. The wet heat of his tongue combined with his fingers on Michael’s bare skin makes Michael dizzy. He lets his head fall back. Gerry traces over his hipbones, teasing along the edge of his waistband. 

“Gerry,” Michael pants. 

Gerry pauses, abandoning the hickey he’s been sucking into Michael’s neck. “Yeah?” he asks. “Is this okay?”

“Y-yes, definitely.” 

“Good. I’ve been thinking about it long enough.” Gerry bites his neck again, dragging his lips down in a series of soft kisses. “It’s a damn good thing you can’t know what _I_ dream about,” he murmurs. “Because if you could, we’d definitely have gotten ourselves into trouble by now.”

Michael’s brain completely fails to process his words. “Y-you thought about me?” he asks. 

“Fuck, of course I did. Look at you.” Gerry kisses the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. “Look at you,” he says again. “So fucking good. I bet you’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you?” Michael nods. 

Gerry hooks his fingers into Michael’s waistband. “What was that?” he asks.

“Ah! Y-yes, I would,” Michael stutters. “I—yes. Anything.”

“I thought so,” says Gerry. “That reminds me, actually.” He pushes Michael back a little harder, so his thigh shifts against Michael’s hard-on. Michael swallows a gasp. “I seem to remember you thinking about me telling you what to do,” says Gerry. “And not just in the conventional way, if you catch my drift.” He grins. “I’ve got to admit, I was prepared for a lot of different reactions to my powers, but _that_ was not one of them.”

Michael ducks his head. “I-I couldn’t help it,” he mumbles. 

“I know you couldn’t. That’s what was so good about it.” Gerry cups Michael’s face in both hands, looking him in the eyes. “Do you really want me to?” he whispers. “Because if you do, I can. I can give you that.”

“I do,” Michael whispers back. 

Gerry kisses him gently. Michael has just settled into the rhythm of it, the soft open-close of his lips against Gerry’s, when Gerry pulls away. “Here’s what you’re going to do,” he says. “First, you’re going to go back to your desk and finish everything you’re supposed to do.” His hand comes to rest on Michael’s inner thigh. “Then you’re going to go about your day exactly as you normally would,” he continues, sliding his hand upwards. “And once it’s all over, you’ll meet me outside the main entrance.” 

He cups Michael through his pants, and Michael shudders. “After that, you’re mine,” Gerry murmurs. “Don’t touch yourself. Save that for me.”

He backs away, and the sudden absence of his body against Michael’s is a shock to the system. Michael wraps his arms around himself. “Th-that didn’t feel like a compulsion,” he says, just to fill the silence. 

Gerry smirks. “It wasn’t,” he says. “I don’t think you need it.”

He goes to unlock the door, and just like that, he slips outside, leaving Michael achingly hard and alone. That smug little shit. He can’t just walk out like that, it’s not _fair_.

But as frustrating as it is, it’s still hot as hell.

God damn it.

***

Every second of the day feels like an hour. Michael’s on edge the entire time. Any attempts to be productive fail miserably; words fall straight through his brain, and all he can do is stare blankly at his files, lost in thought. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to calm his racing pulse. By the end of the day he’s vibrating with anticipation. 

As soon as his shift ends, he’s out the door. He smooths his hair back as he goes, checking his phone’s front camera to get it in place. The reflected image of himself is wide-eyed and nervous. Michael clicks his phone off and stows it away. 

Gerry is waiting for him outside. “Hey,” he says with a smile. “You ready to go?” 

As if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Michael doesn’t know if he wants to slap him or kiss him. He gives Gerry a reproachful look, but says, “Yes.” Gerry grins and holds out his hand. Michael takes it. Gerry laces their fingers together, and as silly as it is after everything that’s happened today, it still gives Michael a little thrill. 

Gerry leads him outside to where his car is parked. He has to let go of Michael’s hand to open the door, and it’s only reluctantly that Michael goes around to hop into the passenger’s side. 

He doesn’t have to ask where they’re going. It’s either Michael’s place or Gerry’s, and Gerry doesn’t ask him for an address. Michael sneaks glances at him as he’s driving. His hands are steady on the wheel, inky black eyes standing out on his knuckles. Michael wonders how many more there are. He’s seen identical tattoos on Gerry’s elbows and shoulders, and on the back of his neck when he’s tied his hair up. There have to be more, he’s sure of it. He wants to see how far down they go. 

Gerry shoots him an amused look. Michael tugs his sweater sleeves over his hands. “Shut up,” he mutters. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Gerry says lightly. “You’re the one thinking it.”

 _Fuck off,_ Michael wants to say. _I can’t just stop thinking._

But he doesn’t say it. Partly because he doesn’t need to, and partly because Gerry has already proved himself to be a smug little shit, and Michael doesn’t want to give him any extra ammunition. 

They finally pull up to Gerry’s building. Michael all but trips up the stairs to his flat. As soon as they’re inside, Gerry pulls him into a kiss. Michael sighs happily and wraps his arms around him. It’s all too easy to get lost in him, sinking into the blissful, pliant state where the only thing that matters is Gerry’s touch, and the way he holds Michael safe and close. 

Gerry pulls back far too soon. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hi,” Michael says giddily. 

Gerry runs his thumb across Michael’s cheekbone. “You…” He trails off, smiling, and shakes his head. “Fuck, you’re amazing. Let me talk to you before I get carried away.” He kisses the corner of Michael’s mouth. “Come on, let’s go to my room.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Michael trots after him to his bedroom. Gerry waits in the middle of the room and gestures for Michael to sit. 

Gerry’s room is nice. It’s a little sparse in a recent-graduate kind of way, with only a wall flag for some metal band and a few posters adorning the walls, and a couple shelves stuffed with books, probably dealing with all manner of occult subjects. A black comforter is thrown over the bed. Michael sits down on it. It’s soft and comfortable. 

“So,” Gerry says, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it to the side. He’s left in a faded grey t-shirt and ripped jeans. “Boundaries,” he says. “Anything I should know about?”

Michael blinks. He doesn’t know why the question takes him by surprise. It shouldn’t—it’s just common decency to ask—but it’s still more than he’s used to, and it makes the entire room feel cozier, like a safe space for the two of them. Michael feels a small smile come to his lips. “Nothing much,” he says. “I-I’m not really into pain, or being made fun of.”

“That’s not nothing, it’s good to know,” Gerry says, coming to sit down beside him. “Anything else?” Michael shakes his head. “Okay. Just let me know if you think of anything.” Gerry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hair tie. “For me,” he says, wrapping his long hair back into a messy ponytail, “I don’t like being touched below the belt.” He grimaces. “It’s just… you already know I’m trans, it doesn’t work for me. Can’t do it.”

“I understand,” Michael says quickly. “That’s not a problem.”

Gerry flashes him a grin. “I didn’t think so. Can’t imagine _you_ trying to top.” 

Michael buries his face in his hands. “Shut _up,_ ” he says. Gerry laughs and touches his wrist.

“See, what I want to do right now is make you look at me,” he says. “But. I know this conversation is hard and weird, so if that makes it easier for you, then—”

“It’s fine,” Michael says, his voice muffled. “I-I… I actually…” He groans. “God, I can’t say it.” 

“Say what?”

Michael exhales slowly into his hands. His heart is in his throat. Admitting it feels like… like stepping over a cliff, crossing a line that he’s been trying to stay behind this entire time. Marking every single bit of his desire as a solid fact that can’t be denied. Exposing just how much he _wants_ it. 

“I like being embarrassed,” he mumbles. 

He can hear the smile in Gerry’s voice. “Sorry, what was that?” he asks. 

“You heard me!” 

“I really don’t think I did. You’ll have to tell me again.”

“Stop _laughing_ ,” Michael says desperately, peeking out from between his fingers. “I like it when you tease me, okay? Are you happy now?”

“Very much so,” says Gerry, grinning widely. “I always thought you might. You like when I call you out, don’t you? When I have to drag things out of you?” 

Michael flushes. Just hearing it out loud makes him hot all over. Gerry moves so they’re facing each other. “So, that kind of thing is a go, but you said you don’t like being made fun of,” he notes. “Where’s the distinction?”

“Oh. Um. I-I just don’t like being degraded, I guess?” Michael finally lowers his hands. “Don’t—don’t call me names. Or…” He bites his lip. “Or say that this isn’t worth anything, you know.” They haven’t had _that_ conversation yet, but if he thinks too hard about it right now, he’ll just stress himself out. What they have is good, and Michael has the feeling that everything will turn out all right in the end either way. 

“Noted,” says Gerry. “And it is worth something to me, just so you know. It’s worth a lot.” His hand comes to rest on Michael’s thigh. “What about things you _do_ like?” he asks. 

Michael giggles nervously. “I think you already know most of them,” he says. 

“Probably, but I want to hear it from you.”

Well, Michael can’t say no to that.

“Hair pulling,” he says in a rush. “A-and being told nice things and being restrained and denied and, and, um,” his mouth goes dry. Gerry hasn’t looked away from him once. Michael clears his throat, flustered. “Being controlled,” he says. “That’s, er, that’s the biggest thing.”

“Well,” says Gerry. “It sounds like I’m exactly the right person for you.” He shifts forward, throwing one leg over Michael’s so he’s straddling his hips. “I think we should have a safeword,” he says nonchalantly. “You okay with the color system? Green for go, yellow for slow down, red for stop?” Michael nods. “How are we feeling now?”

“Green,” Michael says at once. “Very green.”

Gerry smiles. “Good,” he says. He’s a lot smaller than Michael, so even in Michael’s lap, he has to tilt his head up a little to kiss him. Michael throws his arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. Gerry huffs out a laugh. He kisses Michael slowly, gently taking his lower lip between his teeth, but the softness of it is undercut with a sensual heat that goes straight down. Michael’s already half-hard, and the weight of Gerry in his lap isn’t helping. 

Gerry trails his fingers up and under Michael’s sweater. “I think you should take this off now,” he says. Michael lifts it up and over his head. He’s still got his button-down on underneath it, and Gerry sets to work on the buttons, popping them open one by one with quick, nimble motions. Michael shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and shoves it to the side. 

Gerry’s eyes flick over him. Michael shivers. He’s pale and skinny, and he’s never felt particularly attractive, but Gerry looks at him like he could rip the rest of his clothes off and fuck him right there. Michael supposes that’s too much to hope for. 

As soon as the thought has crossed his mind, Gerry grins. “Believe me, I would,” he says. “But where’s the fun in that?”

He rolls his hips sharply, and Michael gasps, digging his fingers into Gerry’s back. “There we are,” Gerry murmurs. He kisses Michael, hard and intense, and just in case the insistent collision of their mouths wasn’t enough, he shifts again, making Michael stiffen in his arms. The imperfect friction makes him want to keep Gerry right there, rubbing against his dick until it’s too much. 

There are still red marks on his neck from earlier in the day. Gerry returns to the same spot and bites down. It’ll be a nightmare to try and cover the bruises, Michael thinks dazedly. He’ll have to get new concealer, or come up with some kind of explanation that doesn’t involve getting fucked by the hottest guy ever to walk into the Magnus Institute. If they get that far, that is. Even the scrape of Gerry’s teeth against his neck is overwhelming. When Gerry trails up his chest and rubs his thumb over Michael’s nipple, Michael shudders and nearly falls backwards. 

Gerry just smiles. He places his hand on Michael’s chest and pushes him down until he’s lying back on the mattress. He leans down over Michael, still rubbing little circles over his chest, and brushes his lips over Michael’s ear. “You said you like being controlled,” he murmurs. “You still interested in being compelled?”

“Yes,” Michael says breathlessly. 

Gerry hums. “I think I’ll need a little more convincing than that,” he says, and pinches Michael’s nipple, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a sharp zing of pleasure through him. 

“Please?” Michael tries. 

“That’s better.” Gerry sits up, looking down at Michael with dark eyes. When he speaks, his voice is low and crackling with an undercurrent of static. “How long have you been thinking about this?” he asks. 

“Ever since I met you,” Michael admits. “I always thought you were hot, and kind of mysterious, and then you turned out to be so nice, I couldn’t help it. Every time you smiled at me I wanted to kiss you, and then you’d tease me and I’d be thinking about it for hours after—”

Michael claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he breathes. He hadn’t meant to say any of that. It had just spilled out of him involuntarily. 

Oh, he’s really in trouble now. 

Gerry grins. “Same for me, actually,” he says. “It’s so easy to make you blush, and you’re so pretty when you do…” The static fades back in, and he asks, “Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?”

“All the time,” Michael says immediately. “I tried not to, at first, but it was so hard, I just gave up—you’d show up wearing something really nice or boss me around, and it’d just creep into my head. I knew it was wrong, but it was so good, I couldn’t really stop…” He trails off, blushing. 

Something occurs to him. 

“D-did you do that on purpose?” he stutters. “Did…” Gerry’s grin widens. “Did you?” Michael demands. “Did you know I liked it, and that was why you were always telling me what to do?”

“Yes,” Gerry says smugly. “Are you complaining?”

Michael swallows. “Um,” he says.

“That’s what I thought. It gave me something to think about too, you know. The way you’d just drop everything for me…” Gerry licks his lips. “You really don’t know how irresistible you are, do you?”

Michael wants to protest, but Gerry cuts him off. “What kinds of things did you imagine?” he asks, compelling static beneath his words. “What did you think about when you were getting off?”

Michael feels the words bubble up from his throat. He tries to keep his mouth shut, but they spill out anyway. “Sometimes I thought about you handcuffing me to my bed and riding me,” he says dreamily. “Telling me not to move, and then doing it really hard and fast, so I’d move, obviously, and then you’d stop and tease me and make me beg for it if I wanted more.” 

“Jesus,” Gerry mutters. He unbuttons Michael’s trousers and works them down. Michael tilts his hips up so he can slide them off. “And?” Gerry asks. “What else?”

“A lot of things,” Michael says. “I thought a lot about you using a vibrator on me, telling me to be really loud. Not that I’d need to be told, with you.” He giggles. “One time I came so hard I said your name on accident. I thought the neighbors might’ve heard, I was so scared.”

“Fuck, Michael,” Gerry says under his breath. He drags his lips along Michael’s collarbone, shifting down his chest to give his nipple a lick. It shocks Michael back into his head. 

“O-oh,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “You… you really can just make me tell you anything—ah!” Gerry has made his way down to Michael’s underwear. He mouths at the outline of his dick, tongueing him through the fabric. Michael grabs onto his shoulder reflexively. 

“Color?” Gerry asks quietly, his breath hot. 

“Green.”

“Mm. You want me to suck you off?” he asks. 

When Michael tries to talk, all that comes out is a little squeak. “I—whatever you want,” he says. “You choose.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Gerry says mischievously. He slides back off the bed. 

“Hey,” Michael says weakly. “Hey, wait, come back. Gerry!”

“Shh, I’ll be right there.” Gerry pulls his shirt off, letting it drop to the floor, and shoves his trousers off. Then he bends over his nightstand, opening up the drawer to retrieve something from inside it. Michael bites his lip. He won’t get his hopes up, but he really, really hopes that’s— 

Gerry snaps the dildo into its place on the harness and slips it on, adjusting the straps around his hips. Michael does a mental victory dance. 

Once the harness is in place, and there’s a condom on the dildo, Gerry grabs a bottle of lube and gets back on the bed, kneeling over Michael. “Did you miss me?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Michael’s jaw. Michael nods. “Perfect. Let’s get these off you, hm?” He tugs at the waistband of Michael’s briefs. Michael allows him to pull them down, and kicks them off once they’re past his ankles. 

His first instinct is to cover himself, but he keeps his hands on the bed. Gerry’s eyes roam over him, from the bruises on his neck and chest to his dick, standing up hard and flushed against his belly. Gerry runs his fingers up his inner thigh, coming tantalizingly close, but not close enough. Michael’s hips kick up automatically, searching for friction, a single touch, anything.

Gerry presses his hips back down. “Hold still,” he murmurs. There’s no compulsion this time, but Michael freezes all the same. When Gerry’s fingers ghost over him, it takes everything in him to keep from thrusting into his hand, but he manages it. Gerry hums appreciatively. “Very good,” he says. “You going to keep being good for me?”

“Yes,” Michael says immediately. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Gerry pops the cap off the lube bottle and squirts a bit into his hand. He rubs it between his fingers, warming it up, and runs one finger up the underside of Michael’s cock. Michael stiffens, just barely managing to keep still. Gerry smiles. “You can move,” he says, and wraps his hand around Michael, slowly starting to stroke him up and down. Michael shudders and rolls his hips into it. 

“Have I told you how pretty you look like this?” Gerry whispers. “All flustered, just waiting for me to touch you? You’re so pretty, Michael, so perfect.” He twists his wrist, and Michael bites his lip, swallowing a moan. “You can be loud if you want to,” says Gerry. “You should. I want to hear it when I’m fucking you.” 

He draws his hand back, and Michael almost whines about it before he sees Gerry reach for a pillow. “Here,” he says, “put this under—there we go.” Michael lifts his hips so Gerry can slide it underneath them, propping him up. Gerry pours more of the lube over his fingers. “You ready?” he asks quietly. “Got a color for me?”

“Yes, yes, still green,” Michael says, shifting his hips impatiently. Gerry smiles. 

“Don’t get too eager,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to make this any slower, would you?” He traces his fingers over Michael’s cock oh-so gently. Michael makes a frustrated noise.

“Please,” he says.

“Please what?” Gerry asks, amused.

Michael averts his eyes. He opens his mouth, but his nerves fail him every time, and the words die in his throat. He finally manages to get out, “Fuck me,” and the look in Gerry’s eyes when he does is worth every bit of anxiety. Michael parts his thighs. Gerry’s hand slips down, and Michael inhales deeply as his fingers graze over him. When Gerry finally pushes in, Michael pushes back, forcing him in deeper. Gerry swears under his breath.

“Fuck, you’re exactly how I always hoped you’d be,” he says. “Tell me what you like, okay? I want to make this good for you.” 

“It is.” Michael inhales deeply, forcing himself to relax. Gerry’s finger is a steady curl of pressure inside him, not quite pleasure, not yet. Gerry keeps one hand on his hip, and it feels like an anchor. It’s like Michael is dangling over an open abyss, the thrill of vertigo keeping his heart racing. He holds on tight to Gerry so he doesn’t fall. Gerry kisses him, and Michael kisses back eagerly, letting the feeling swallow him. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, a dizzy rush of dopamine.

Gerry works in a second finger, and it pushes him a few inches closer to that abyss. Michael shivers. He feels hot-wired and strung-out, like there’s electricity coursing through him and burning through the delicate cables of his system. Gerry’s mouth on his is an open socket, charging him up until he’s shivering, energy buzzing through him and working its way out through the kick of his hips and the way he trembles when Gerry crooks his fingers. 

“You like that?” Gerry whispers into his mouth. “Tell me how it feels.”

Michael can barely get the words out. “G-good,” he says shakily. 

“You want more?” There’s a pop from the lube bottle cap, then Gerry presses a third finger in, and Michael gasps. “So good,” Gerry murmurs, rubbing his thumb over Michael’s hip. “I’ve got you, stay with me.”

Michael bites his lip. He’s burning to touch himself, but the second he lets his hand wander from Gerry’s waist down to his own stomach, Gerry is quick to bite at his neck. “Not yet,” he says. He pulls Michael’s wrist back and presses it to the mattress. Just as he does so, he does _something_ with his fingers, something that startles a breathy moan from Michael’s throat. 

“Fuck,” he sighs. His head spins. Gerry does it again, harder this time, and that’s all it takes; something shifts, and Michael falls over the edge, his stomach dropping out from beneath him. What was too much isn’t nearly enough. All his senses have flipped to _yes_ and _go_ and _more_. He pushes back against Gerry’s fingers, and it sends sparks rippling up his spine. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Th-that’s—Gerry, Gerry, I’m ready now.” 

“You sure?” Gerry asks, kissing his neck softly. “You want my cock in you, sweetheart?”

A jolt of heat goes straight to Michael’s dick. The need that overtakes him is fierce and insistent. He grabs Gerry by the back of his neck, kissing him hard. Gerry licks into his mouth. The slide of his tongue is wet and filthy and Michael needs more, _now_. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes. It makes him flush all over to be so bold, but God if it’s not _hot_ , and he can’t wait anymore, he can’t take the time to be shy. “Please.”

Gerry’s eyes go wide. For a second, he stills. He carefully slides his fingers out, then, all at once, he grabs the lube to get his strap wet, giving it a few hard strokes, and crowds Michael down against the mattress. “You,” he says, “are the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen, Michael. Holy shit.” He forces Michael’s thighs apart further and lines up the tip of his strap. Michael lets his head fall back, panting as Gerry pushes it into him. He gets it in all the way and just holds it there, Michael squirming underneath him. It’s almost too much, to feel so stretched open and full, but all he can process is the burning desire for more. 

Gerry slowly pulls out and then thrusts in again, setting a rhythm that’s far too gentle. Michael makes a frustrated noise. Gerry smiles. “Something the matter?” he asks. Michael whines. “Use your words, Michael, come on.” 

“Faster, please,” Michael begs. 

“You sure?” Gerry asks, still rolling his hips in that slow, steady pace. He threads his fingers through Michael’s hair, holding it close, down at the base of his neck. 

Michael bites down on his shoulder. “Yes,” he grits out. 

“Perfect,” says Gerry, and thrusts in hard. Michael sees stars. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting his mouth fall open, breathing hard. Gerry fucks him quicker, the snap of his hips making Michael’s entire body thrum with pleasure. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he says roughly. “Look at you, so fucking desperate for it. Finally got what you wanted, huh? How many times have you made yourself come thinking about this?”

This time, Michael doesn’t resist the compulsion. “So many,” he gasps. “I don’t know, I lost track.”

Gerry groans a little as they grind into each other. “Fuck, I want to see that.” He tugs at Michael’s hair, thrusting deep into him. Michael’s breath hitches on a moan. “Yeah?” Gerry asks. “Come on, beautiful, I want to hear you.” 

Michael whimpers. He can hear the grin in Gerry’s voice when he says, “Yeah. You like pet names, huh? You want to know how gorgeous you are?” He presses his thumb against Michael’s nipple. Michael can barely think straight. Everything is a dazy blur of Gerry and touch and the fervent heat building deep within him. 

“I always thought about you,” Gerry breathes. “Always wanted to just knock the bullshit off your desk and bend you over it, see how loud I could get you to say my name. Wanted to get my fingers in that pretty mouth, make you suck them all wet and fuck yourself for me. I bet you’d like that, huh? Bet you’d look so good with your hand on your cock, looking at me, waiting for me to tell you what to do.”

He fucks into Michael harder, and Michael cries out, scratching his nails down Gerry’s back. “Fuck,” Gerry pants. “Fuck, that’s hot. You can touch yourself now, let me feel it.”

Michael immediately gets a hand on his dick, already slick with precome. Gerry quickens his pace, and Michael jerks himself off hard and fast to match it. He can feel the crescendo spiraling up and up and up, every breath coming out a gasp, little _ah_ sounds escaping his lips when Gerry hits just the right spot. 

“Gerry,” he manages, digging his fingers into Gerry’s back. “Gerry, I-I’m, fuck, I’m almost—”

Gerry captures his lips in a kiss. Michael moans into it. Gerry bites his lip and says, “Not yet.” Static fills Michael’s mouth and tingles through him. His entire body shudders. It feels like a wave rolling over and over and never crashing, keeping him teetering on a knife’s edge of euphoria. It’s so good he could cry. Gerry has him in the palm of his hand, blissed-out and trembling with it. 

“Gerry,” he says desperately. “Please let me, I need it, Gerry, _please_ —”

“Okay, Michael,” Gerry murmurs into his ear. “It’s okay. You did so good, sweetheart, you can come for me now.” 

The compulsion falls to pieces, and so does Michael. 

Gerry fucks him through it, gradually slowing to a stop. He’s left rubbing gentle circles into Michael’s hips. Michael sighs, and Gerry kisses him gently. Michael’s mouth is soft and pliant against his. 

“Good?” Gerry asks softly. 

Michael hums and kisses him again. Gerry smiles against his lips. “Hold on,” he says, and carefully pulls out. He takes a minute to pull the condom off his strap and get the harness off, then he falls into bed beside Michael, throwing an arm over his waist. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Michael says. “Are you going to…”

Gerry half-smiles. “Nah,” he says. “Getting myself off is tricky sometimes, I think it’s better to quit while I’m ahead. I get more out of doing it to you anyway. Maybe next time, though.”

Michael flushes. “Next time?” he asks. Gerry rubs his thumb over his cheek. 

“If you want there to be one,” he says. “I was kind of assuming.”

“No, I do,” Michael says quickly. “Definitely, that was, that was amazing.” 

“Good.” Gerry hasn’t stopped stroking Michael’s face. It feels nice. Intimate. “So,” he says. “Now that we’ve done something about _that_ aspect of your daydreams.”

Michael had been content to float his slow, fucked-out headspace, but Gerry’s words make his heart rate jump right back up. “Yeah?” he whispers. 

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?” Gerry asks hopefully. “Or something? Anything. I probably should’ve asked that first, but, y’know,” he smiles, a bit sheepishly. “Who has the time for that?”

“I do,” Michael says, placing his hand over Gerry’s on his cheek. He curls his fingers around it so Gerry can’t move away. “I-I mean, I could make time. For you. Which isn’t to say that I don’t have time, because I do, definitely, but especially for you, I’d—”

Gerry’s shoulders shake a little, and it takes Michael a moment to realize he’s laughing. “Don’t laugh at me!” Michael whines. “I’m trying, okay?”

“I know, I know. I wouldn’t have you any other way,” Gerry says fondly. He draws Michael’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Michael’s breath catches. “I think there are about a million ways I did this wrong,” Gerry says. 

Michael shakes his head. “I think you did all of it right,” he whispers. 

“Maybe,” Gerry whispers back. “I hope so. ‘Cause you’re really something special.” 

Michael feels himself grinning like an idiot. How is it that Gerry always does this to him? He’s just gotten fucked six ways from Sunday, but it’s the little encouragements that still make him blush. 

“You are, too,” he says. “But I think you already know what I think about you.”

“In great detail,” Gerry says with a smile. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing you say it.”

Michael leans in and kisses him. No matter how many times they’ve kissed today, it still feels like a completely new sensation each time, like discovering a new corner of the universe. Michael’s skin buzzes with helpless, nervous excitement. He breathes Gerry in, and he thinks as hard as he can about all the things he wants to do together: the kissing, the hand-holding, the art museum dates and walks in the park, the snatched opportunities to fool around at work, the questions and answers they have yet to give each other. 

He asks if Gerry wants it, too. 

Gerry pulls away, grinning. “Duh,” he says. “Of course I do. But don’t think you can get away with just thinking things at me all the time, that’s so not what I meant by ‘hearing you say it.’”

Michael shifts closer, burying his head in Gerry’s neck. Gerry tightens his arm around Michael’s waist, holding him close. “You’ll just have to stick around and let me give it another try, then,” Michael murmurs. 

Gerry presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Believe me,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) for a look into my twisted mind/me posting about gerrymichael at 2am


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